He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:

Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O, He gives to us his joy,
That our griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone,
He doth sit by us and moan.

VII.

THE TIGER.

TIGER, Tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

VIII.

A LITTLE BOY LOST.

"NOUGHT loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought

A greater than itself to know.

"And, Father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more?

I love you like the little bird

That picks up crumbs around the door."

The Priest sat by and heard the child;

In trembling zeal he seized his hair,

He led him by his little coat,

And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,

"Lo! what a fiend is here," said he, "One who sets reason up for judge

Of our most holy Mystery."

The weeping child could not be heard,

The weeping parents wept in vain, They stripped him to his little shirt, And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place

Where many had been burned before;

The weeping parents wept in vain.

Are such things done on Albion's shore?

IX

SMILE AND FROWN.

THERE is a smile of Love,

And there is a smile of Deceit, And there is a smile of smiles

In which the two smiles meet.

And there is a frown of Hate,

And there is a frown of Disdain, And there is a frown of frowns

Which you strive to forget in vain ;

For it sticks in the heart's deep core,
And it sticks in the deep backbone.
And no smile ever was smiled
But only one smile alone.

(And betwixt the cradle and grave It only once smiled can be,) That when it once is smiled

There's an end to all misery.

X.

OPPORTUNITY.

He who bends to himself a joy
Does the wingèd life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.

UPON GROWING OLD.

BY J. HAIN FRISWELL.

OHN FOSTER, (he who sprung into celebrity from

JOH

one essay, Popular Ignorance,) had a diseased feeling against growing old, which seems to us to be very prevalent. He was sorry to lose every parting hour. "I have seen a fearful sight to-day," he would say, "I have seen a buttercup." To others the sight would only give visions of the coming spring and future summer; to him it told of the past year, the last Christmas, the days which would never come again, the so many days nearer the grave. Thackeray continually expressed the same feeling. He reverts to the merry old time when George the Third was king. He looks back with a regretful mind to his own youth. The black Care constantly rides behind his chariot. "Ah, my friends," he says, "how beautiful was youth! We are growing old. Spring-time and summer are past. We near the winter of our days. We shall never feel as we have felt. We approach the inevitable grave." Few men, in deed, know how to grow old gracefully as Madame de Staël very truly observed. There is an unmanly sadness at leaving off the old follies and the old games. We all hate fogeyism. Dr. Johnson, great and good as he was, had a touch of this regret, and we may pardon him for the feeling. A youth spent in poverty and neglect, a manhood consumed in unceasing struggle, are not preparatives to growing old in